


Once More

by welzes



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 19:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welzes/pseuds/welzes
Summary: Peace has returned to the Sky Realm, and Sandalphon lives on as the Supreme Primarch in title only. He roams the peaceful skies when, one day, a man with an uncanny resemblance to Lucifer appears before him.





	Once More

**Author's Note:**

> For Trap and Mina, who presented the idea that I promptly ran away with like a shameless maniac. Thank you for putting up with me. Please enjoy. Also, 3 AM is definitely not the time for proofreading, so RIP on that front.

“Ah, pardon me. Is this seat taken?”

Sandalphon, now retired from his duties as the overseer of evolution, continued to cling to his promise of guarding the Sky Realm as much as his eyes now clung to the face of the man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Lucifer. Stunned, he stared while the man glanced down at the vacant café seat between them. Taking his silence for a rejection, the man apologized and began to turn away.

Blinking, Sandalphon said without thinking, “It’s not.”

The man spun around—at first with a look of confusion, then gratitude as he took the seat beside Sandalphon, his lips stretching into a radiant smile.

“Thank you. It’s just, the café can get rather crowded at this hour. I hope my presence won’t be of much bother to you.” The man’s smile froze at Sandalphon’s dull stare. “Is everything all right?”

For the second time, Sandalphon blinked. He shook his head, clearing it of intrusive thoughts. “No, it’s nothing.”

“That’s a relief.”

The man gave another kind smile. Raising his cup of coffee for a sip, he turned his attention to the bustling street on the other side of the plant partition. To this man, the silence that washed over them must have been comforting; for Sandalphon, time had grinded to a halt as he watched the man sitting across him.

It was not long before the man drained his cup of its contents. He offered another word of thanks as he stood and pushed the chair in.

“I hope that your day is a good one,” he said, sincerely. “Ah, you should finish your coffee before it gets cold. Take care.”

Once the man’s retreating back disappeared from view, Sandalphon brought a hand to his temple.

“Couldn’t be,” he mumbled—and yet, a name managed to tumble off his tongue: “Lucifer . . . ”

The man, who had drunk his coffee with much relish, had possessed neither wings nor the aura of a primal beast. He was human, a Skydweller living amongst his diverse kind—a mortal. _Perhaps,_ thought Sandalphon, _I imagined the whole thing. These recent years of peace are finally starting to take their toll on me._

* * *

A century later, the name came unbidden again as Sandalphon whispered, “Lucifer.”

Even for a primal such as himself, the show had been impressive. The lead—a beautiful man with white hair and bright blue eyes, whose soulful voice commanded the attention of all in attendance—had masterfully handled the otherwise saccharine tone of the script. But so occupied he was by appearances, Sandalphon only realized the theatre had emptied once the actor in question was standing before him.

“Could you be . . . ?” the man murmured, leaning in for a closer look until their noses were an inch apart.

Sandalphon drew back in alarm, his expression one of bewilderment. His heart skipped a beat at the look of recognition in the man’s eyes.

“What—”

The man clasped his hands and exclaimed, “I see. You are my new muse!”

 “ . . . What?”

“O Creator, this serendipitous encounter can only be attributed to your benevolence. You see, I’d been running dry on a source of inspiration for a while now. I was worried for my next performance, and this affected the show tonight . . . but here you are now: a vision shone from the very heavens. There’s something divine about you that words cannot capture. Please, would you not break fast with me tomorrow?”

The man gazed upon Sandalphon with a hopeful cant of his head, and it took everything in Sandalphon to stay in place and moderate his mien into a mild frown. _Just the appearance,_ he thought, _which isn’t so usual_. His thoughts slithered to Lucio, then Lucifer, and finally back to the actor awaiting his response.

“Why should I do that?” he asked.

The man’s lips pressed together into a pout. “Was I not clear enough? Very well. I would like to convene with you tomorrow and get to know you. How about the local café, first thing on their opening?”

“Not interested. Find someone else to bother.”

As Sandalphon moved toward the exit, the man extended an amiable hand to halt his departure.

“Please reconsider. It’ll only take a moment. Ah, but there’s so much that I’d like to ask . . . ”

“Save those questions for whoever’s willing to be your so-called muse.”

The man’s arm lowered in a stilted motion—a sign that he was not accustomed to rejection. With a face like that, no mortal could deny him. Sandalphon was no such thing, however; thus, he strode away with ease, and his gait stayed true even with the call of the man behind him pleading for another reconsideration.

Outside the theatre, the night breeze grazed his cheeks in a fleeting caress. Sandalphon bowed his head and sighed, equal parts peeved and at a loss.

Come morning, he was midflight to another island when, against his better judgment, he turned back. It was approaching noon by the time he reached the café; and though he was certain that this was a wasted venture at this juncture, he nearly recoiled in shock when the man waved at him from an outdoor seat.

“Words can’t express my gratitude for your arrival,” the man said upon Sandalphon’s approach.

“What nonsense . . . Have you been waiting this whole time? It’s been hours. Don’t you have better things to be doing?”

“None more important than becoming acquainted with my newest muse. Please have a seat. What would you like to drink? Something to eat as well, perhaps?”

Sandalphon had no intention of staying long. He made this sentiment known from the outset, but the man was not deterred. Soon they were partaking of coffee with a plate of pastries in the center of the table. Preferring to look at anything but the man across him, Sandalphon fixed his gaze on the cup of coffee that he turned idly in his grasp while the man launched into a series of questions.

“Are you a native of this island?”

“No.”

“I see. I suppose I would have noticed your presence earlier if that were the case. Well, then: what do you do for a living?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What did you do before nothing?”

Sandalphon scowled. “You’re nosy.”

“Forgive me. I’m just curious,” said the man, a smile teasing at his lips. “Will you not answer my question?”

“I owed someone a favor. It took me on a long journey, and I never stopped traveling. That’s all.”

“Oh? A close friend of yours?” At Sandalphon’s deepening scowl, the man leaned back against his seat. “Most noble of you. And so well-traveled, too . . . You’re something else, my muse.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me for my name? It’s not Muse. I’m not your anything.”

“I was under the impression that you might like to keep that detail to yourself. Unless you’d prefer to tell me?”

“ . . . No. This is fine.”

The response drew no ill feeling from the man, whose kind face allowed Sandalphon his anonymity. A moment elapsed in silence between them as they each took a sip of their drink. Then the man was on the offensive again, inquiring after other small details that Sandalphon imparted unto him with some degree of gruffness.

Their exchange was, all things considered, quite short. As soon as the cup in his possession was drained of coffee, Sandalphon stood to leave. The man made no move to detain him—only an offer to return later that year for his next performance, which would be dedicated to his otherworldly muse. With a huff, Sandalphon departed the island within the hour.

Yet, with nothing better to do on the promised day, Sandalphon found himself seated in the back of the same theatre he’d first encountered the actor. The show was different this time around, and the man’s performance had changed accordingly. Their eyes met during a scene—and while the man did not so much as shift an inch amid his delivery, his eyes seemed to sparkle for the remainder of the act.

Intermission came and went; and so, too, did the second act. It was only after everyone had left that the man strode up to Sandalphon, beaming.

“It’s good to see you again, my muse. What did you think?”

Sandalphon, who still did not possess the capacity to appreciate such fine art, struggled to word his assessment. “It was different. Your last show wasn’t bad, but . . . the level of intensity was greater here.”

He must have said the right thing, for the man gave a satisfied hum.

“For that, I have you to thank. Truly, no one has ever inspired me as you have. I wonder sometimes why that is . . . but there’s nothing wrong with leaving a mystery as it is. Thank you for seeing the show.”

“You invited me. Even gave me a pass before the show had been decided . . . ”

“Of course. I had to repay you for your kindness.” The man took Sandalphon’s hands in his own. “Seeing you again has renewed my drive. Will you meet me again tomorrow—same place, same time?”

“You’ll need to clarify the time,” said Sandalphon, scowling at his impulsivity even as he spoke.

“Ah, yes. How about noon again? I don’t wish to rush you like our last appointment. I would be most grateful if you could spare me even one hour.”

And so Sandalphon did, dropping by the café at the appointed time and answering to the man’s insatiable curiosity. They did this for years to come, until the day that the man approached a different member of the audience after one late show. Then Sandalphon knew their time had passed, and he exited the theatre with an apathetic sigh.

A muse was fleeting, just like the fancy of mortals. He had known this day would come. When news of the actor’s death reached his ears a decade later, he turned away from the gossiping crowd. The personal matters of mortals were none of his business.

* * *

Not a score had passed when Sandalphon felt a familiar aura. It was faint, so much so that he stopped mid stride to pinpoint its location. He spun on his heels and there it was—a boy of whom he had not taken note earlier, for he had never seen Lucifer with the visage of a child. Yet the youth touted white hair; and though his back was turned, Sandalphon’s breath caught in his throat.

The youth walked alone; his attention, glued to a book in one hand while the other turned the pages. He seemed to know where he was heading—that was, until he made a turn a touch early and walked straight into a tree. Sandalphon jumped as the youth crumpled onto the ground and was unresponsive for a palpable moment.

With a quiet grunt, the youth sat up, rubbing his face. He glanced around for the book that Sandalphon, having retrieved just then, now held out for him to take.

“Are you hurt?” asked Sandalphon.

Clutching the book to his chest, the youth shook his head. Then, after giving Sandalphon an appraising look, he rounded the corner and dashed down the street.

Dizzied by the sight he had just seen, Sandalphon chided himself. _Of course a mortal will age into an adult. It’s not the same as a primal._ Curious, wary, and ambivalent—he could not deny that he was now familiar with the youth’s faint aura and could locate him whenever he wished. It was an aura that was both similar yet dissimilar to that of the late Lucifer, like the smallest ember that might grow into something great if the winds weren’t so miserly. Exhaling through his nose, Sandalphon shut his senses to it.

But as fate would have it, he happened upon the youth the next day. The youth was reading under the shade of a tree, and a pile of books sat next to him on the ground. Before he knew it, Sandalphon had closed the gap between them.

“You’re the boy from before,” he said, for the lack of a better greeting. “How are you feeling?”

The youth startled at the sudden sound and lost his grip on the book, which bounced in his hands before falling to the floor with a soft thud. He collected it promptly, then looked up at Sandalphon with wide eyes. There was a scratch on his cheek, but no signs of lasting injury besides.

“Better, I see,” finished Sandalphon.

Nodding sheepishly, the youth curled in over the book. Sandalphon shifted his gaze to the pile of unread books, all of which, at a glimpse of the titles, were of different subjects. While the ages of mortals continued to confound him even now, some of the titles were clearly above the level of the youth’s apparent age.

“That’s a lot of books . . . Are you studying? In that case, I’ll leave you be. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

 _What_ did _I mean to do? How annoying . . ._

“No,” the youth said in a small, sheepish voice. “Just looking.”

“Hm? What are you looking for?”

“Ideas.” The youth chanced a glance at Sandalphon, who kept a neutral expression. “For the future.”

“You mean . . . a craft?”

The youth nodded. “There are so many to choose from. I don’t want to make the wrong choice.”

“You’re still young. You have all the time in the world to decide what you should do,” said Sandalphon, though he himself wondered over his words—a primal had no experience in such a matter.

“I want to choose what’s right for me. Something that I can do . . . ”

Apparently having found a confidant in Sandalphon, the youth spent the rest of the afternoon combing through the books he’d brought with Sandalphon seated next to him. Once in a while, he would ask a question about the crafts outlined in the text, and only the many years spent traveling afforded Sandalphon the modicum of knowledge to answer. Those answers must have pleased the youth, who shyly invited him to come back another time.

For a primal, a handful of years were nothing. Yet to a mortal child, the passage of time was painfully visible. The youth’s voice deepened, and his face narrowed as a natural result of shedding baby fat. Now an older adolescent, he stood taller than Sandalphon. Yet, for all his growth, at this age he still appeared much younger than the latter was accustomed to seeing for one with Lucifer’s likeness.

Unusually, the youth had no taste for coffee.

One day, Sandalphon asked if he’d finally chosen a path to pursue. The youth nodded. That path was arduous—but, should he reach its end, rewarding as well.

“I’ll be busy starting now. Still, I’d be delighted if you would visit as you have been,” he said.

“Then I’ll drop by between my travels,” replied Sandalphon, and the youth smiled.

The more the youth engrossed himself in his chosen craft, the less time he had for everything else. At first, they would meet frequently and the youth would relay his experiences to Sandalphon with quiet enthusiasm. Then, one year, Sandalphon found himself alone by the tree.

A retired primarch could afford a few hours. Thus he waited, until it was dark and he stood to leave for the night. _It’s to be expected. He’s been getting busier every day_ , he thought. The next time they met, the youth apologized for his absence, and Sandalphon waved the offense off.

“You’re busy. Coming all this way must be exhausting after all the work that you do.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

As the frequency of their meetings fell, so did the length of their discussions. The youth no longer had time to spare for Sandalphon. These days, they exchanged greetings and a couple formalities, then parted. The abruptness did not trouble Sandalphon, nor did their final gathering phase him outwardly when the youth came to him with long-expected news.

“I’ll always cherish the time and advice you gave me, but I can’t push this back any further. I don’t think we should meet anymore. There just . . . isn’t the time anymore.”

Sandalphon nodded; his expression, impassive.

“You’re right. You can’t afford distractions at this time. It’d be better if you focused on your studies from here on out.” His lips curled into a wry smirk. “Good luck . . . though I doubt you’ll need that from me.”

This was natural. He was, after all, an archangel; and the youth was a mortal with a time limit.

* * *

Many lifetimes later, Sandalphon tracked the reemergence of the faint aura upon its birth. The babe had just barely survived, while the mother had perished during childbirth. The grieving father took his frail son—and if he questioned the sudden appearance of a helping hand in his time of need, then he said nothing.

The infant was pale and weak, unable to so much as squeak for sustenance during his hunger pangs. Sandalphon, who had previously gone in and out of the lives of the infant’s previous incarnations, did not leave the babe’s side. He was by no means an expert in childrearing; however, he desired nothing more than the newborn’s well-being.

One night, the infant mustered up the strength to latch onto his finger, giggling softly. Sandalphon, at first taken back by the baffling gesture, smiled upon seeing the joy writ across the babe’s face.

They lived in a small and peaceful countryside, where all the villagers knew each other. Their children played with one another—but with the child’s health at constant jeopardy, he could not leave the cottage for more than a few minutes at a time.

“I want to go,” said the child with immature enunciation.

“You’re not well,” said Sandalphon. “Once the fever’s gone down, you can go out for a while.”

“Can I play with everyone?”

“If they want to. You can ask them when you’re better.”

The child could barely stay upright on a good day. Roughhousing with the other children was out of the question. They knew this too, for they scoffed at his invitations to play when he was well enough to sit outside and take in the fresh air. Dejected, he would return to the cottage and lie in bed while Sandalphon would sit at his bedside.

“I want to be alone,” the child murmured.

“You were just wanting to play with everyone else,” said Sandalphon, not unkindly.

“You’re not them.”

“No, but . . . ” Thinking better of his response, Sandalphon trailed off. “I’ll let you be, then.”

He stepped outside, where the children were playing a game of ball several yards into the distance, and looked up at the sky from his perch by the cottage. Moments passed in relaxing quiet when he heard a muffled cough from indoors.

Standing on the other side of the child’s door, he asked, “How’s everything?”

“Fine,” croaked the child from inside.

“All right. Call for me if you need anything.”

“You never do anything . . . ”

It was a quiet murmur, but loud enough for an archangel with superior hearing. At a loss, Sandalphon frowned. Unsure if it had been intended to be heard, he ignored the comment and said, “Get some rest. Your father will be home soon.”

As the years went by, the child cultivated his stamina until he could go outdoors without collapsing in a matter of minutes. Although he still lagged behind the other children, he could play a game or two. He was, however, prone to illness, and the medicine to maintain his immune system demanded that his father be away for most of the day to work off the pay, leaving Sandalphon to be his primary caretaker.

While he had withheld the truth about his identity, the child’s father must have realized by now, if not also the child himself. The villagers, on the other hand, were aware of his presence and knew little else. For the most part, he stayed indoors. If he went out, he did so when nobody was close enough to glimpse his face. The mystery surrounding his existence, he realized now, must have had a hand in isolating the child from his cohort.

The rumor mill, which he had once thought self-indulgent and nonsensical, could be quite dangerous.

The child sniffled into his pillow. “They won’t come here, because you’re here.”

“Your father will be home soon. I’ll let him know, so he can talk this out,” said Sandalphon.

“Why don’t _you_ do it?”

“It’s me they’re talking about. If I confront them, they might get the wrong idea.”

“You never do _anything_. You just sit there and tell me to wait. All you do is repeat yourself. I _know_.”

 _It’s a tantrum_ , he told himself. _He always does this when the others reject him. I’m guilty of having done the same in the past. Be patient._

“I understand what you’re saying. I know there isn’t much that I can do, but it—”

“I don’t need you.”

An uncomfortable silence draped itself like a thick blanket over them. The child had lifted his head just enough for the anger to be visible in his young eyes. Although he didn’t look Sandalphon’s way, it was a withering glare nonetheless. Sandalphon swallowed.

“No . . . no, of course not. You have your father, and you’re only getting better. If this keeps up, you’ll be able to do anything your heart desires . . . ” Sandalphon shook his head, sighing. “I can see that my presence is affecting you. Sorry. I’ll go.”

He left, never to return lest he bring the unhappiness back with him. Perhaps it would have been more fitting to say that he ran away in the face of such unadulterated rejection.

Gliding through the vast skies, Sandalphon chided himself. _That I could pretend and care for a mortal child who reminds me of him . . . What nonsense was I thinking? How pathetic._ Yet, even recognizing his irrationality throughout the whole affair, he could not help the lump that rose in his throat and the heat that gathered in his face. The realization fueled his frustration and he halted abruptly, hovering in the middle of nowhere with nary a soul in sight.

A great, deep sigh escaped Sandalphon. His shoulders sagged, his wings drooping in tandem with them. Light enveloped his body and began to scatter, undoing his manifestation after centuries upon centuries of activity. He’d roamed the Sky Realm in its entirety multiple times, and no threats to it existed as of now; thus, he would sleep and leave these wretched emotions behind him.

_Lucifer . . . I’ll never . . ._

The Supreme Primarch, after all, was no longer necessary for the time being. The particles of light that once composed his physical body flickered out of the mortals’ plane of existence, and Sandalphon welcomed the darkness that embraced his core.

* * *

Deep within a shrine, Sandalphon stirred. The Four Primarchs stood before him. Glancing down at himself, he saw that he had manifested upon hearing their call in his sleep. He lifted his head, and the Primarchs stepped forward to inform him of a peculiar existence in the Sky Realm.

“Is it harmful?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“No,” said Gabriel with a troubled look. “But we thought you’d like to meet him yourself, first.”

“Him? . . . All right. Where is he now?”

“Lumacie,” supplied Michael. “He’s been looking into locations and artifacts relevant to the Astrals. It could be that he’s finally . . . ”

“Finally what?”

Gabriel shook her head, and Uriel insisted that they leave now or risk missing their mark. As one, the Primarchs descended upon Lumacie Archipelago, where Sandalphon alone approached a man roaming the ruins of the lab in which they’d all been created. The man was crouched on the ground and looking around, oblivious to the presence of the Supreme Primarch behind him.

“You,” started Sandalphon. “What are you doing?”

At once, the man whirled around. His bright blue eyes shone even in the dim lighting of the ruins that illuminated his white hair. The Skydweller’s fair face regarded Sandalphon with wary surprise.

“Hey. Answer m—”

“Sandalphon?”

The man approached him slowly, as if he were in a trance—and if he were to misstep even once, the illusion before him would shatter. His gaze rested heavily on Sandalphon, whose lips parted in confusion. At his following response, the man froze.

“How do you know my name? I’ve never seen you before, Skydweller.”

**Author's Note:**

> While their personalities varied immensely, each incarnation of Lucifer focused on a facet of the original’s character. The first was most like the original and rounded; the second inherited the capacity to truly appreciate the finer things in life, yet hyperfocus on a single person; the third possessed the same sense of purpose, but struggled with the lack of one as a non-primal; and the fourth, in a twist, was born with the same lack of emotional intelligence, which made for poor interpersonal skills.
> 
> As if Sandalphon’s memories had sought out a new vessel upon being shut out, Lucifer remembered Sandalphon in the next life as soon as the latter went to sleep.


End file.
